Vigil (PG-13)
Posted: Sun May 31, 2009 6:22 pm
(I don't own Moonlight or its characters - I just have fun with 'em)
Vigil
Mick sat in the chair at Beth’s bedside. The doctor had been in earlier in the day, and had told him Beth probably wouldn’t last the night. The IV that had been providing her with nutrition had been disconnected two days ago by the hospice staff. At 84, Beth had not been much more than skin and bones before the cancer. Now the contour of her frail body barely broke the line of the crisp, white sheet that covered it.
Mick watched the rise and fall of Beth’s slight chest and counted the seconds between her ragged, rasping breaths, trying to tell whether they were growing further apart. He wondered with each exhalation whether it might be her last. A cool washcloth rested on Beth’s forehead. Her gray hair was damp. He stroked Beth’s hand. It felt like twigs covered with onion paper.
Beth hadn’t moved voluntarily for two days, so Mick was taken aback when she opened her eyes and slowly turned her head toward him. She smiled weakly through cracked lips and appeared to say something, although Mick could not hear her. He smiled back at her and leaned forward, placing his ear next to Beth’s mouth. “I love you,” she whispered. Mick turned his head and whispered “I love you, too,” into Beth’s ear, a tear rolling off his cheek and falling onto her pillow. “Rest now,” he said. Beth nodded almost imperceptibly.
Suddenly she squeezed her eyes shut, her thin smile replaced by a grimace. “What is it?” Mick asked. He understood Beth’s answer even though he couldn’t hear her. “It hurts”, she mouthed, tears forming in the corners of her rheumy eyes. Mick reached for one of the morphine sponges hospice had provided. They reminded him of the suckers he used to enjoy as a kid. Each of the small, rectangular yellow sponges had a paper stick attached and was wrapped in clear plastic. Mick opened one and gently daubed Beth’s lips. After a few minutes Beth’s tense body relaxed, and she fell back into a slow, rhythmic breathing.
The hospice nurse knocked gently on the door and entered the room. “You should probably let her rest, Mr. St. John,” she said, her hand on Mick’s shoulder, “and you could use some rest yourself.” Mick looked up at the nurse. He didn’t want to leave Beth. “Just a few more minutes,” he pleaded. The nurse nodded, then turned and left the room.
Mick stood, his joints creaking. His body had stiffened from sitting too long in one position. He walked into Beth’s small bathroom, closed the door and switched on the light. Mick filled the sink with cold water and splashed his face. He looked up into the mirror through cloudy eyes that didn’t bear much resemblance to their original sparkling hazel. He studied the thin, white hair that had receded many years ago to the point where he had to resort to a comb-over to hide his liver-spotted scalp. Deep wrinkles crinkled the corners of his eyes and bracketed his mouth. The skin beneath his chin hung in loose flaps.
Mick emptied the sink, dried his face, shut off the light and shuffled back into the room. After gauging whether he could fit, he pulled back the sheet and climbed gingerly into bed next to Beth. He covered up again and gently put one arm around Beth, snuggling as close to her as he dared. Beth sighed in her sleep, and Mick closed his eyes. When the hospice nurse returned half an hour later, she discovered that both Mick and Beth had passed on.
Vigil
Mick sat in the chair at Beth’s bedside. The doctor had been in earlier in the day, and had told him Beth probably wouldn’t last the night. The IV that had been providing her with nutrition had been disconnected two days ago by the hospice staff. At 84, Beth had not been much more than skin and bones before the cancer. Now the contour of her frail body barely broke the line of the crisp, white sheet that covered it.
Mick watched the rise and fall of Beth’s slight chest and counted the seconds between her ragged, rasping breaths, trying to tell whether they were growing further apart. He wondered with each exhalation whether it might be her last. A cool washcloth rested on Beth’s forehead. Her gray hair was damp. He stroked Beth’s hand. It felt like twigs covered with onion paper.
Beth hadn’t moved voluntarily for two days, so Mick was taken aback when she opened her eyes and slowly turned her head toward him. She smiled weakly through cracked lips and appeared to say something, although Mick could not hear her. He smiled back at her and leaned forward, placing his ear next to Beth’s mouth. “I love you,” she whispered. Mick turned his head and whispered “I love you, too,” into Beth’s ear, a tear rolling off his cheek and falling onto her pillow. “Rest now,” he said. Beth nodded almost imperceptibly.
Suddenly she squeezed her eyes shut, her thin smile replaced by a grimace. “What is it?” Mick asked. He understood Beth’s answer even though he couldn’t hear her. “It hurts”, she mouthed, tears forming in the corners of her rheumy eyes. Mick reached for one of the morphine sponges hospice had provided. They reminded him of the suckers he used to enjoy as a kid. Each of the small, rectangular yellow sponges had a paper stick attached and was wrapped in clear plastic. Mick opened one and gently daubed Beth’s lips. After a few minutes Beth’s tense body relaxed, and she fell back into a slow, rhythmic breathing.
The hospice nurse knocked gently on the door and entered the room. “You should probably let her rest, Mr. St. John,” she said, her hand on Mick’s shoulder, “and you could use some rest yourself.” Mick looked up at the nurse. He didn’t want to leave Beth. “Just a few more minutes,” he pleaded. The nurse nodded, then turned and left the room.
Mick stood, his joints creaking. His body had stiffened from sitting too long in one position. He walked into Beth’s small bathroom, closed the door and switched on the light. Mick filled the sink with cold water and splashed his face. He looked up into the mirror through cloudy eyes that didn’t bear much resemblance to their original sparkling hazel. He studied the thin, white hair that had receded many years ago to the point where he had to resort to a comb-over to hide his liver-spotted scalp. Deep wrinkles crinkled the corners of his eyes and bracketed his mouth. The skin beneath his chin hung in loose flaps.
Mick emptied the sink, dried his face, shut off the light and shuffled back into the room. After gauging whether he could fit, he pulled back the sheet and climbed gingerly into bed next to Beth. He covered up again and gently put one arm around Beth, snuggling as close to her as he dared. Beth sighed in her sleep, and Mick closed his eyes. When the hospice nurse returned half an hour later, she discovered that both Mick and Beth had passed on.